Fake Family Night
by E. Beckham
Summary: Joe must endure an awkward Game Night with his family and their dates. But, when the police show up, the situation gets even more uncomfortable. Warning: Spanking of a teen


Joe Toy walked into the kitchen to find his dad had set the table for five places and was lighting candles.

"What's all this?" the boy asked incredulously.

"Carol's gonna be here in 30. Go wash up."

Joe grimaced. He'd forgotten that his dad had said that the new woman he was dating would be coming to dinner. The fifteen year-old had no intention of sticking around to see her.

"Dad, you know, I just realized I have a party tonight, so I'm not going to be able to make it for dinner and stuff. Sorry."

"Too bad," his father replied flatly. "The plans are already made. Your sister's driving all the way in. I'm making lamb stew."

"Are we in Beowulf?" the boy quipped with a smirk.

Ignoring the dig, his father added, "Look, after dinner I was thinking we might bring back Game Night. It'll be fun"

"Game Night is a family thing, Dad. I'm not going to play Game Night with some spider woman you found in the gutter."

"Carol is not a spider woman that I found in the gutter, Joe. She's a very nice lady who happens to like me. And I like her."

"So we haven't played Game Night since Mom died, and then all of a sudden you meet some floozy…."

"Enough! Enough, Joe! This is not a debate. My house, my rules. Now go get ready."

When the boy opened his mouth to argue, his father took a menacing step toward him.

"Think carefully about your next words. They may be your last."

The teenager rolled his eyes and huffed out of the kitchen.

* * *

After the Beowulf dinner, everyone gathered around the coffee table to play Monopoly. Joe was relieved to have his sister and ally, Heather, home for the occasion. …Even if she had brought her idiot boyfriend, Colin.

As they played, everyone—except Joe—chatted amiably. Eventually Carol turned and addressed the teen.

"So, Joe, your dad told me that you go to Tottenville. Are you on any teams?"

"Carol, before we go any further, you should know, Frank is not my real father. I love him, and I owe him a lot. He's very special to me, but he's not my blood." Out of the corner of his eye, Joe could see Heather, laughing, shake her head no vigorously at her confused boyfriend. She knew Joe loved making up stories, and she was usually entertained by these performances.

Carol, too, looked shocked. "Is that true, Frank?"

Frank, on the other hand, was not amused. "That's completely _untrue_ ," he scowled. He quickly turned back to the game and said sharply, "I'm taking Ventnor."

"Heather?" Joe asked slyly. "Do you remember when Dad quit because you wouldn't trade him B&O?" This story had long ago become family legend and was one of the boy's favorites.

"Oh, do I remember when my own father called me a 'fear-mongering Chinaman'? …Yes, I do. …Mostly because I'm not a man, nor am I Chinese."

"Oh my God," Carol laughed. "What a panic! That's something my great grandfather would say. He's a racist."

Joe smirked at his father.

"Colin. Want to be my buddy?" Frank asked, addressing his daughter's boyfriend. "Tennessee for Park Place."

"You got it," Colin eagerly replied.

Heather and Joe examined the board carefully, trying to see their dad's strategy.

Suddenly, the boy exclaimed, "No! Whoa! …Whoa, whoa, whoa! This is bullshit, Dad! You're pricing me out of the goddamn game!"

"Language, Joe!" his dad growled.

"This is collusion!" the teen snapped.

"Dad, come on," Heather interjected.

"Yeah, it's kind of cruel, Frank," Carol said.

But Frank merely shook his head. "No. He's just mad because he doesn't want to be here, so he's being a little shit."

With that, Joe stood up abruptly and headed for the kitchen.

"Oh, great, he's quitting. ...That's nice work, Dad," said Heather.

"Joe, don't go," called Carol.

Frank, feeling remorseful, said quietly, "He'll be alright. Let him walk it off."

Once Joe was in the kitchen, he paced for a moment before reaching for the phone. He quickly dialed 9-1-1. He walked back into the family room, so his father could see him holding the receiver to his ear.

The effect was immediate.

"Ah, shit, he's doing it! Joe!" Frank roared. The man quickly jumped up, knocking into a chair and the coffee table as he made a grab for his son.

Joe ran for the garage and locked the door behind him.

"Joe!" Frank yelled, banging on the door. "Joe!"

On the phone, the teen heard the dispatcher say, "9-1-1. What's your emergency?"

"Yeah, I'd like to report a theft."

"God damn it!" Frank yelled, as he pounded on the door.

"His name is Frank Toy, brown hair, uh, height unknown…" Joe continued. The door shook as his father rammed it with his shoulder. The boy knew the door would not hold.

"I'll call you back," the teenager said hastily, hanging up. The door flew open forcefully and his red-faced father barged in.

"You son of a bitch," Frank barked. He shut the garage door firmly and locked it before advancing on the boy.

In the face of his dad's anger, Joe was suddenly scared. The boy was still surprised by how intimidating his dad was when he was mad.

"Dad…" Joe said weakly, taking several steps backwards.

Frank snatched the phone from the teenager's hand and tossed it on a nearby worktable. Then he grabbed his son's left bicep, jerked him sideways, and landed a volley of swats on the boy's backside.

"Now," Frank snarled. "Go up to your room. Wait for the police to come and do not make any more trouble. You and I will discuss this after the police and Carol leave. Do you understand?"

Joe's mind seemed blank and he made no answer.

Quickly, Frank yanked the boy back around, delivered another set of stinging smacks, and repeated his instructions.

"Yes, sir. In my room. No more trouble. Got it," the teen stammered through gritted teeth.

"Good," the man grunted.

His father, still holding his arm, directed Joe back in the house and toward the stairs. With one final whack to the boy's rear, Frank sent his son scurrying upstairs. Joe could feel the prickle of tears at the corners of his eyes. Everyone had just witnessed his dad spank him and, probably, had heard the more-thorough punishment too. These humiliations were almost too much for the boy to bear.

* * *

The police interviewed Joe and were quickly convinced that there was no emergency. Captain Davis and Deputy Simms tried to impress upon the boy that 911 should not be used unless there was an actual emergency. The officers knew that since Joe's mother died the year before that life had been difficult for the teen and that his relationship with his father was especially strained.

Frank walked the officers to the front stoop, where they stopped to chat. As he sat on his bed, Joe could hear the entire conversation through his open window.

"The problem with Joseph's 'habit' is that one day there will be an _actual_ emergency or violent crime coming from this house," Captain Davis said, her voice calm and droll.

"Yeah, well, ...the night is still young," his father replied dryly.

"Uh, Mr. Toy, are you familiar with 'The Boy who Cried Wolf?'" Deputy Simms asked seriously.

"Yes. I experienced a childhood on the planet Earth, so, yes, I've heard of that one. Do you think you could apply it to my situation in an allegorical fashion?"

"Okay," the young deputy began uncertainly. "It's a story that involves a boy who constantly cries 'Wolf.'"

"Stop," Davis interrupted, but the young man continued talking.

"And, when the wolf finally comes, he doesn't have anyone to turn to."

"I'm sorry," Frank snapped. "The boy who cried what?"

"Wolf."

"Fuck you. The boy who cried _what_?"

"Stop talking," Captain Davis demanded.

"Wolf!"

"Get the fuck off my porch before I knock your dick in the dirt," Frank seethed.

"Come on," Davis demanded, dragging the younger officer off the porch with her. "What's next? 'The Three Little Pigs'?"

* * *

Meanwhile, Heather had gone up to check on her brother. She knew their dad had spanked him and knew the boy would be in even more trouble once the police were done talking to Frank.

Heather knocked and walked in her Joe's room. She sat down on the bed and stared at the boy.

"Why?" she finally asked.

"I don't know. …Because he pisses me off."

"Well, did calling 911 help? Did it accomplish your goal?"

Joe sighed, but didn't answer.

"So your goal wasn't getting your behind smacked?" Heather teased.

"Ugh, you heard that?"

"Because, you know, I'll knock you around just for fun. You don't have to get Dad all riled up."

"Gee, thanks," the boy smiled.

"Listen, it gets easier," Heather promised, earnestly.

"Really?"

"Honest. I swear. Look at it this way, in two years, he's gonna pay for you to leave."

"Yeah…. I know this may sound desperate, but I'm 100% lucid. Okay? Don't smile, because I'm..."

"Yes, this is very serious…."

"I _am_ serious."

"I'm taking you _so seriously_."

"I can be packed in 15 minutes. Just take me with you to Grandville. _Please._ "

"Okay, I would… _Totally_ would, but…" Heather said in mock seriousness. "Dad would want to come visit us all the time and that just wouldn't work for me."

"You're lame," Joe groaned.

"Yeah, so, take it easy on him. …Look at you, getting so handsome," she said, gently slapping the boy's cheek.

"Yeah, yeah. …Don't touch me."

"You love it." Heather stood and bent down, kissing the top of her brother's head before she left.

* * *

After the officers and an extremely unimpressed Carol left, Frank went to Joe's room and walked in without knocking. He pulled out the desk chair and sat down facing the boy's bed.

"Joseph," he said, sounding tired. "You calling 911 _must_ stop. They can charge you for making false reports. It wastes people's time and energy. Plus, I told you what would happen the last time you did this. Didn't I?"

Joe's shoulder's slumped, but he said nothing.

"What did I say would happen, Joseph?"

Ten seconds passed. Frank slammed his hand on the wooden desk. " _Tell me, Joseph_!" he roared.

"You said you'd whip me," the boy squeaked.

His father shook his head disapprovingly. "I did. And I thought you'd have enough sense to make sure there was no next time. But I was wrong about that, wasn't I?"

With that, Frank stood and took off his leather belt. "Pull down your pants, son, and bend over the end of the bed."

The teenager stayed seated on his bed, eyes transfixed on his bedspread.

"Joseph," his father said through gritted teeth, "if I have to repeat myself, you'll pull down your underwear too. Got it?"

The boy sighed and stood up. He walked to the end of the bed, unbuttoned his jeans and let them drop to his feet. As he stretched out across the foot of his bed, he wished his boxers would be more protective. At least no one was around to hear his punishment this time.

"You're getting 10 licks, Joe. And the next time you call 911, I promise you, that one way or another, you will have an emergency on your hands. Got it?"

Joe took a deep breath to calm himself. "Got it."

The belt sliced the air and smacked his backside.

"One," his dad said.

The boy gripped the edges of the bed and leaned up on his bed, hoping to avoid the belt's full contact.

Again the belt rushed to meet its target. "Two."

This whipping was much more painful than the spankings Joe got on a regular basis.

"Three." The boy gasped and squirmed.

The belt whacked his behind again. "Four."

Joe could feel his chest burning. Tears filled his eyes and his nose began running.

"Dad," the boy whimpered. "I get it. No more 911."

"Five," his father answered.

The boy began crying quietly. His backside was burning and stinging.

"Six."

" _Please…"_ the boy whined.

The belt smacked him again. "Seven."

Tears continued down Joe's cheeks and he buried his face in his comforter. He shifted his weight from one knee to the other.

"Eight," he dad said. "Son, be still."

The teen stopped wriggling and tried to focus on keeping himself from moving.

"Nine. Last one."

A plaintive moan escaped the boy's lips.

"Ten. That's it."

The teenager wiped his eyes and face on his shirt. He kicked his jeans off, picked up his pajamas, and pulled the much softer pants over his sore behind.

"Look, Joe, this bullshit ends today. No more treating me or Carol like crap. No more temper tantrums. And absolutely no more calling 911. Got it?"

"Yeah," the boy said quietly. "Got it."

"Because, I swear to God, I will spank your bare behind with my belt next time. Do you understand?"

"I said I understand," Joe sneered.

"Excuse me?" Frank said menacingly.

" _God… I said I understand_ ," the teen yelled.

Before he had a chance to say anything else, his father sat down on the boy's bed, jerked Joe across his lap, and yanked his pajama bottoms and boxers down. Frank delivered three sharp smacks with the belt to his son's bare backside. "Do you need me to continue?"

" _No!_ Sorry, Dad. Sorry."

After he had pulled his underwear and pajamas back up, the boy stood and rubbed his backside.

His dad stood up and said, "No more of your attitude, Joe. It's exhausting."

The father and son stared at one another for a moment.

Suddenly, the teen felt small and sad. He missed his mom and Heather and wanted comfort.

"Remember how Mom used to make only popcorn on Sundays for dinner?"

Frank, taken aback by this unexpected memory, nodded and smiled. "I do. She loved popcorn. With lots of butter and salt. Or with a little sugar. Or just air popped. Pretty much any way."

"Yeah, and with M&Ms too."

"Right, I almost forgot that," the man smiled. "Do you want some popcorn? All this talk has made me hungry for some."

Joe nodded. "Maybe we could watch _Airplane_."

"Your mom's favorite movie. …Definitely. I could use a laugh. …Surely you could too."

"Yeah, I could. And don't call me 'Shirley,'" the boy said, smiling self-consciously, still rubbing his backside.

* * *

 **Author** : Did you read this story...and review it?

 **Reader** : Surely you can't be serious. Of course, I did.

 **Author** : I am serious... and don't call me Shirley.

* * *

 **FYI, as one reviewer points out, hitting kids is wrong. Glad we agree. I hope we can also agree that no actual children were harmed in the writing of this fictional story.**


End file.
